In Memoriam
by Charisasori
Summary: It is the twenty-first century, but Itachi dreams of a time and a place long gone where tragedy, war, and deceit was the name of the game and the sky was the color of freshly spilt blood. Repetition, it seems, is the way of the world. Modern World Reincarnation. AU. Written in short interconnected Oneshots. On Temporary Hiatus.
1. I

In Memoriam

Summary: It is the twenty-first century, but Itachi dreams of a time and a place long gone where tragedy, war, and deceit was the name of the game and the sky was the color of freshly spilt blood. Repetition, it seems, is the way of the world.

Modern World Reincarnation. AU.

**1. Prologue  
**

* * *

He is only thirteen when he finally and completely looses sight of the sun.

* * *

The granite is cold beneath his steady fingers even as unfathomable eyes stare passively at the gleaming headstone.

_Uchiha Shisui_

_January 1, 1994 - January 15, 2010 _

_A Beloved Son, Devoted Cousin, And A Loyal Friend. _

There are no tears in his eyes, no outward show of distress. He is an Uchiha, after all. Pride is the vice that grips them all like iron while perfection is considered the ultimate goal.

Around him, all he can distinguish are a sea of faces carved from stone. There is only silence. There is no weeping and no warmth. Their expressions are as cold and perfect as the smooth stone before him.

His heart clenches painfully -in sorrow or in anger? He can no longer distinguish one from the other- but still, he feels no surprise.

After all, marble statues cannot cry.

* * *

He is Uchiha Itachi, and he is _only_ _thirteen _when he looses sight of the sun.


	2. Beggining of the End: Mikoto & Itachi

In Memoriam

Summary: It is the twenty-first century, but Itachi dreams of a time and a place long gone where tragedy, war, and deceit was the name of the game and the sky was the color of freshly spilt blood. Repetition, it seems, is the way of the world.

Modern World Reincarnation. AU.

**The Beginning of the End: I**

He is only six when the dreams start. Only six when he begins seeing things no one can explain. His dreams are violent and bloody. Realistic in a way only memories can be. But all Itachi can see are the dead bodies of men and women, children too, around him, as numerous as all the fallen leaves in autumn.

He can feel the tight grip of fear constricting his dream-self's throat. The stench of fire and death is so strong it makes his eyes water and sting.

The blood in his veins is as cold as ice and even the humid breeze that ruffles his hair doesn't warm him as he stares at the carnage. Sorrow and a sense of violation fill him as he stares at the nameless village, familiar and burning. It's his _home_. He can feel that, deep in his bones, though he has no memories of the place.

The ground is stained with dark red liquid as he stands alone. And everything is _clear_, so _horrifyingly and vividly clear _that he stumbles back in mounting horror_. _He is only six, and the sight will forever be etched into his memory.

He wakes up in cold sweat, gasping for air even as tears stream down soft cheeks. There is only one thought ringing in his mind, a never ending and desperate litany of '_Protect Sasuke! Protect Sasuke!'_

Like any six year old, he runs from his room to seek comfort.

His parents wake up the next morning to find his room empty and messy. Cold. Anxiety grips them as they call for him, worried. There is no answer. Dread fills the pit of their stomachs.

It is only when Mikoto slides the door to Sasuke's nursery open, frantic with worry, that they find him. He is curled protectively around his younger brother, dried tear tracks staining otherwise clean skin. They are huddled together beneath Sasuke's navy blue blanket, clutching each other desperately even in sleep. Mikoto feels her worry slowly ebb away as she takes a hesitant step inside the room.

The sight warms her and fills her with an odd sense of nostalgia. It is a familiar scene, she thinks, even though this is the first time she has ever witnessed her two sons in such a position. Her musings are cut short when she catches a glimpse of a blood-red color in her peripheral vision. She whips her head towards the small corner in alarm before what she is looking at registers in her brain.

There, in the corner of Sasuke's nursery, are the remains of Itachi's shirt. Torn to shreds and littering the floor, looking for all the world like streams and puddles of blood.

Mikoto can't help but shiver as goose bumps appear all over her skin. It feels as if someone has dumped a bucket of ice cold water down her spine as irrational dread courses through her veins and settles like a heavy weight in the pit of her stomach. She calms her breathing with slight difficulty when she feels Fugaku drift closer to her in alarm. She does not turn to look at him but focuses on meticulously gathering the shreds of blood-red cloth. Distantly, she notes that her arms are shaking and cold, but her focus is on the shredded cloth in her lap.

The color haunts her and she can't shake the feeling of horrified realization in the pit of her stomach. She doesn't know _why _she is so _horrified _or _what _she's even _realizing_ because there are no concrete thoughts in her mind, just a blur of _blood-red color _and incomplete thoughts _-__Oh Kami-sama! Was this the end? Her son…!__- _and a half-formed image of a familiar silhouette against the backdrop of a full moon.

Mechanically, she stands and clenches the strips of fabric in her hand with an iron grip, unaware of the world around her. The images and the thoughts whirling through her head at dizzying speeds tickle her memory like a half forgotten dream. _She tries and tries and tries but…_

The memory does not come to her, flitting away from edges of her mind and slipping through her fingers like sand.

Her jaw clenches and her breath hitches as a feeling of deep sorrow burrows into her bones and into her chest. She failed. Failed at _what_, she doesn't know, but she _knows _she lost a fight. And the cost, whatever it had been, was _much, much, much too high. _

She turns towards her two slumbering sons, drinking in the sight of them hungrily like an animal starved of water and nourishment. All soft baby skin and innocent faces, they are her _world_. Her _universe_.

She approaches them with something akin to wonderment, eyes soft and gleaming in quiet desperation. Her free hand ghosts over both their cheeks before she plants a soft kiss on both their foreheads. It's a promise. A promise of _what_, she can't adequately explain, but a promise nonetheless.

She notes the tear tracks staining Itachi's face, frowning, before gently wiping them off with one of the shredded pieces of fabric in her hand. She vows to wipe away his tears for as long as she can.

She leaves them there to sleep.

And if Fugaku finds it strange of her to burn the remains of Itachi's shirt, he says nothing.

By the end of the day, anything they had owned the color of blood is nothing but ashes drifting in the wind.


End file.
